


don't talk, just hold me closer

by karyakova



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karyakova/pseuds/karyakova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya has to seduce someone in Istanbul, and Gaby is not equipped to handle that, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Istanbul is hot. Very hot. It is not something Gaby is used to; not the daily rings and calls of the mosques, not the people shoving and pushing and yelling; not the overpowering scents of the spices; not the noise; not the sweat. It is nothing like East Berlin, nothing like Rome, nothing like Europe. She has never been more uncomfortably reminded of her humble and sheltered life behind the Wall – next to Napoleon and Illya, she feels like a child. They have both been to Istanbul before, obviously – Napoleon thrice, Illya twice. Napoleon speaks the language, Illya has gotten very good at intimidating the pushy salesmen to leave him alone. They are the experts, the real, professionally trained spies – she is just a girl whose father got her in the mess in the first place. It is all too new, too bright, too loud – and you know what else? Too damn hot.

It’s a good thing she can mask her insecurity in this confusing place by being quiet and hiding her questioning eyes under the sunglasses at all times. They are very large, gold framed and round, and her very best friend at the moment. She stretches for a second; the divan is uncomfortable and not at all good for lounging in all day, which is what she has precisely been doing anyways. They are all waiting for Waverley to show up with their assignment and identities – after a full week of waiting in the Istanbul safe house and getting used to the place, anyone would grow restless. Illya looks impatient and a bit uncomfortable in his light short-sleeved shirt, the cut of which does not suit him at all; even Napoleon gives way to his inner restlessness by turning the pages of his newspaper too quickly. Gaby has not been a spy for long, but she notices things now. When Waverly walks in, some thirty minutes later, the relief is palpable: Gaby straightens her back almost imperceptibly, Napoleon folds up his paper, and Illya simply looks up. There is something about his blue eyes that Gaby cannot ignore, even when she tries her hardest – the expression he has now makes her remember the dim sunlight in that Rome hotel room, except his eyes were more open then and completely honest in their message…

„Right“, says Waverly, rubbing his hands together. „Here’s the situation. And there is, believe me, absolutely no time to waste. I admit the bosses took their sweet time in approving the identities I assigned you. And the paperwork was no joke, too.“

He tosses three worn-looking passports on the glass table in front of them. When Gaby reaches out and opens one, the picture on the front page is of Napoleon but his name is Jonathan Creek, and the document is almost stamped completely through. She throws it to Napoleon, who catches it without ever glancing away from Waverley’s face.

„The stitch here, gentlemen“, Waverley continues, „is that the Vinciguerras had an enormous network of suppliers all over Europe. Now, most of them have already been taken down mere hours after we did our share of the work, but-“

He sits down, elegantly crossing his legs.

„One last connection remains. An underground factory of all the parts that make a bomb go ‘boom’ and 'bang’, if you would believe so, is spread out beneath the Bosphorus channel. And they have not stopped production, no sir. In fact, they picked it up in the last week or so, if the intel is correct. We need to find out who are they supplying for now that the Vinciguerras are out of the business. We got a couple of men working from the inside for the last year or so, and through that connection we secured two jobs on the main line. Gaby, I trust you are as good with a screwdriver as ever?“

She nods. „Good. Because I think mr. Solo will need a crash course.“

Napoleon scoffs. Of course he scoffs. Gaby just chooses to ignore it.

„Mr. Kuryakin , how is your French?“

Illya shifts in his seat.

„ _Suffisant_ “, he grumbles.

„Perfect“, replies Waverly, leaning forward. „You got the big role in this one, my Soviet friend. The owner of the factory is 26 year old Jacquelline de la Roche, spoiled, beautiful, and, above all, rumoured to have quite a thing for Slav men.“

Illya huffs an annoyed breath and rolls his eyes; and Gaby is glad, because she did the exact same in the privacy of her own mind. Her dress suddenly feels too hot and tight. She picks up her paper fan, opening it a bit more forcefully then she intended to.

„Don’t even worry about the French, mr. Kuryakin, though it is a plus. You just keep your charming accent and I suspect things will fall right into your lap.“

„Excuse me“, says Napoleon quite sweetly. „Not to interfere with the orders of my superiors, but are you sure that’s exactly what the plan you got sent said? Isn’t there an obvious role reversal you might see here that would be better for all involved? No offense, but I feel like there is still a lot of tundra residing in this Russian heart“, he says, glancing at the Illya’s direction.

„Do you think I will not be able to seduce a woman?“, Illya retorts quite harshly, turning to Napoleon.

Gaby unfurls her legs from the divan and straightens to watch the show; opposite her, Waverly looks similarly amused but uncomfortable at the same time.

„Now, now, agents“, he interrupts. „It is what it is. I am sure that mr. Kuryakin will find no trouble with this assignment. After all, it is not his heart that is supposed to melt, it’s hers.“

In one quick movement, he stands up and smooths out his suit jacket. „All the papers are on the table in front of you. The intelligence, the identities, their background. I am sure I don’t have to tell you to handle this with the maximum efficiency and discreteness you can. Really looking forward to the weekly reports.“

Once he leaves the room, Gaby lowers her sunglasses and leans towards the remaining two passports on the table.

„Alright“, she says, suddenly feeling the rush of the adrenaline hit her, „which one is mine?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "suffisant" - "good enough"


	2. Chapter 2

The afternoon passes in a bored, bored daze: Gaby is so bored she feels like she wants to break some of those antique ornate vases that stand in the corners of every room of the safe house. She suppresses the urge to slink away to Illya’s room and bother him for a bit. After he gathered up all the documents relevant to him, he urgently wished them both a good day and closed his bedroom door.

„Method actor“, Napoleon said with a grin. „Should’ve known.“

Napoleon himself left not long after for a shopping spree; leaving Gaby all on her own in the common room. She dedicates herself to scrubbing nail polish off her nails – factory workers don’t indulge in that luxury. It takes her all of 5 minutes. Then she is restless again.

Her alter-ego is named Katya Gezling, a simple 23 years old girl, of whom she received no additional information. Factory workers don’t really need that much background, she supposes. So she amuses herself with making up stories: Katya’s grandfather escaped the war from his little Bavarian town and settled with his family in the outskirts of Istanbul; Katya’s alcoholic mother later lost all the family fortune in the secret poker games held in the slums of the city after midnight…

The door of Illya’s room still draws her attention, no matter how hard she tries to resist it.

She silently gets up and crosses the room in a few quick steps, then presses her ear on the old wood. There is nothing to be heard from the other side but the muffled sound of the radio. It is playing some song she does not know, in what sounds like French. There is no sign that Illya is even in the room – a big man like that, you could hear his footsteps…

„Now, Gaby“, Napoleon suddenly says from behind her, „I thought you were above all that.“

She moves away, from the door trying to school her expression. Again, the sunglasses come in handy.

„I was just checking something“, she says.

The smile she gets in return makes the tips of her ears burn. She hopes that spies, almighty and all seeing as they are, still have some limits to their observations. She smooths her hair over her ears, just in case.

„Well, what have you bought me?“

The question succeeds in its intention: Napoleon starts pulling out colorful dresses out of his bags and laying them out on the sofa with a look of a very satisfied shopper, gabbling away about the cuts and skirt lengths.

***

Illya doesn’t emerge from his room before dinner time, and he is quiet and evasive at the table. Not that Gaby cares if he did or did not notice her new clothes. But she thought he would.

When Napoleon excuses himself and wishes them both a good night, because he needs „his beauty sleep“, they are left with an uncomfortable silence. Illya stands up quite suddenly, and starts collecting dishes. Before Gaby can even fathom what he is doing, he is already washing them in the tiny mint-green sink. She turns to look at him, resting an arm on the chair’s back.

„How is role preparing going, mr. Gable?“, she says in her best attempt at a joke. She can’t see if he smiles or not.

„Good“, is all he says in response. The clinking of plates fills out the silence once again. Gaby can’t help but notice how funny it looks, this tall, large man bending over to wash dishes in the small kitchen. The line of his back is curved inwards as he has to lean forward a little for his hands to reach the tap, and his broad shoulders are slung and relaxed, not the tightly coiled, rigid lined muscles he sports when he is on duty. The water splashes on his shirt; he doesn’t seem to mind.

It is a calming thing to watch, and Gaby relaxes a little, releasing breaths she didn’t realize she was holding.

„Big day tomorrow“, she says. Illya hums and nods in response.

„When are you leaving?“, he asks.

„Need to be at work at 6am. Leaving at 3am, I think, to move in our little flat. From there, straight to the factory.“

He nods again.

„It will be good. Your cover is good.“

„What is yours?“

Now she can hear him huff.

„Diamond trader. Apparently I own a few mines in East Africa.“

„She is bound to drink that up.“

„Yes.“

He was done with the dishes; Gaby watches him wiping his hands with the washcloth thoroughly as he turns to face her. In the distance, she can still hear the radio. It makes her want to dance. Maybe dance with Illya. This time, with no slapping involved.

„I wish it was you with me in that factory“, she says suddenly. „I might need someone to protect me. Napoleon is alright, but I think you are better at it.“

This is teasing, and she knows it, but she can’t help herself; seeing the shy smile that creeps up his normally passive face right now, she realizes that she has been missing it.

„I think you can hold your own, chop shop girl“, he replies, the Russian accent in his voice a bit thicker than normal. There is a moment – they both look at each other.

„Stay safe out there, alright, Illya?“, she says.

„I will“, he replies, and she watches his Adam’s apple bobble up and down before he decides on not saying anything else.

***

The radio is still playing when she goes to bed; she listens to the sounds of Illya’s pacing in the room next door until it lulls her to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Factory work is hard but Gaby is used to it. She understands she is mostly there to actually work, fraternize with the rest of the people on the line and keep their cover from getting blown, while Napoleon is there to do actual spy work. He complains about all the calousses on his fingers at night in their cramped little worker’s flat, and she does his best to ignore him. They have been there for a week and it has been one of the more tedious weeks of her life.

This night is no different: Napoleon is obnoxiously counting all of his sores, while she reads her book and actively blocks out all the noise even remotely resembling his voice.

„Honestly, Gaby“, he says after ten minutes of talking to the empty air, „it’s like you don’t even listen to me sometime.“

„Not at all“, she replies, her eyes not leaving her place on the page, „for you, Napoleon, I am all ears.“

He drones on for what seems like forever – 10 pages later, she catches the end of the word ‘Kuryakin.“

„Sorry, what?“, she says, closing her book and turning to him.

„Oh, so _now_ you’re listening. I said, Kuryakin’s got a big moment tomorrow night and I for one would not like to miss that. I was suggesting we-“

„What kind of big moment?“

„There is a big ball being hosted by de la Roche in one of the abandoned palaces on the Asian side. He has been invited for every tea party that French woman was throwing this week, so obviously this ball tonight is his time to shine. I really want to see how it turns out.“

„So you propose we break in?“

She is not going to mention their express orders not to get anywhere in a mile radius of Illya during this assignment. Napoleon is obviously not going to mention it either. Besides, it has been a full week since she saw him last. It’s just making sure everything is going according to plan.

„Not even breaking in, my dear Gabby. There is always some unfortunate waiter that just happens to stroll down the wrong street on his way to work.“

She rolls her eyes.

„Nice.“

„You’re with me on this, then?“

_If we get found out we are going to be in so much trouble._

But she just nods in response. Napoleon looks like he could rub his hands with glee.

„Can’t wait to see loverboy in action“, he says with a grin, then gets up and starts doing push ups.

Gaby sighs and gets back to her book.

***

The party is all glitz and glamour: gowns and impeccable suit jackets waltz around the old courtyard, corners of which are overgrown with moss and grass. There are string lights being hung from the broken first and second floor windows, and a string quartet playing Strauss. The house itself is on the brink of falling apart, but the people in it are obviously at the very top of their game: Napoleon watches the diamonds hanging around their necks and off their ears with hungry eyes.

Gaby’s dress is too big for her, and no amount of Napoleon’s smart adjusting will fix that. She just hopes nobody notices, and hides her face behind a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Napoleon, on the other hand, is barely pretending at all – he is chatting up some of the younger heiresses who are obviously dying to cause a bit of trouble in the family by sleeping with the help, and their giggling is slowly but steadily pissing Gaby off.

And Illya is still not there.

The quartet switches from Strauss to Haydn; a pleasant change, since Gaby always liked his work. She resists the urge to sway with the music’s flow, and gives the two gentlemen surveying the food on her tray a polite smile. She wishes she stole a few glances at lllya’s file before they left the safe house; at least then she would know what the French woman looked like. Now she was just blindly turning this way and that, hoping to spot her just by… an evil expression all factory owners must have? In any case, she has a few suggestions about the work conditions and she would like to propose them to that woman by way of fist in face.

This whole thing was a mistake, she thinks, refilling the champagne glasses. Just a bunch of rich people pissing her off, and she and Napoleon had to be in the factory in about 6 hours, and she knows he is never going to leave without first dragging off one of those giggling heiresses to some private corner, and it’s all slowly but surely ruining her mood.

And then the music changes from Haydn to Tchaikovsky, and Illya walks in.

Gaby has to put her tray down because her hands suddenly shake so violently she is afraid she will drop it.

It is Illya, but he looks nothing like himself. Dressed in a handsome dark blue suit, without his little grey hat, his hair smoothly gelled and polished, on his arm a blonde woman who cannot be anyone but Jacquelline de la Roche. They move through the crowd slowly, confidently, stopping every few steps for people to greet their host. Illya is smiling like Gaby has never seen him smile: broadly, suavely. She knows it’s all fake, but it’s so convincing it makes her stomach turn.

She ducks behind a potted plant and pretends to busy herself with arranging more hors d'ouevres on a tray; Napoleon turns to shoot her a sly grin – he is enjoying himself too much. Gaby has half a mind to go and tell him they need to leave – the sudden appearance of Illya, looking like he does, is making her strangely nervous.

„I might have underestimated our colleague“, he says cheerfully. Gaby shakes her head.

„I think we need to leave“, she mutters back.

„No rush“, Napoleon replies, glancing about the room as if they were having the simplest, most casual of conversations. „You see, one of those charming ladies I have been getting acquintated with knows more then she lets on. You keep the champagne coming, and let me do my work.“

„Your work of getting her dress off, you mean?“, Gaby replies hotly.

„Amongst other things“, he says, nonchalantly moving away and calmly avoiding her angry eyes. „Oh, and Gaby? Try to stay out of Peril’s way. There is no way of knowing how he might react if he sees you.“

And with a wink, Napoleon is gone, rejoining his fans, leaving her to fume. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Illya and the woman dancing in the middle of the crowd. They look good together, both blonde-haired and blue eyed, both moving as gracefully as if they are trained dancers: the memory of Illya telling her he doesn’t dance burns painfully in her mind now. Jacquelline de la Roche looks like a princess in her light blue, shimmering gown; her pointed nose and long neck and elegant limbs fit Illya’s frame perfectly and Gaby feels hot and sick for no reason she can understand.

She makes a point of making rounds on the furthest part of the cortyard from them, and keeps her head down until she notices the pair slipping out to the back garden through a large corridor.

She can’t help herself and follows suit: anyways, what if Illya’s cover got blown? What if the French woman was on him from the start? Just to make sure he’s safe, she tells herself, and slips behind some haggard looking bushes near the entrance.

It’s quiet and dark in the overgrown garden – only a few strands of warm light and noise spill away from the corridor and the party on the other side of it. The heavy smell of flowers she cannot recognize is overpowering to Gaby’s senses.

„Well, well, well, mr. Plotkin“, de la Roche says with a smile, breaking the silence. Her voice is sultry and deep, the heavy French accent making each word sound like a hushed promise – Gaby isn’t sure if it’s just for show or if it’s real, but she hates it all the same.

„If I wasn’t sure you were such a gentleman, I would think you took me out here for some… ungentlemanly activities.“

„May I call you Jacquelline?“, Illya murmurs, covering de la Roche’s hand with a kiss. His own accent is too put on and much harsher then it normally is, and his voice… Gaby has not yet heard him speak in this way, all smiles and lust. _Fake, it is all fake,_ she reminds herself. _The romance, the kissing… His eyes are not (my) Illya’s eyes._ She closes her own eyes for a moment, and tries to ignore her own thoughts.

„Istanbul always had the most luxurious of nights, wouldn’t you agree?“, the woman starts again, following Illya’s mouth with her eyes. „So hot and lush. Makes a girl want to do… bad things.“

Gaby now knows for certain that this whole night was a mistake. She also knows there is no way to back up through the corridor without being seen – the couple is standing just so they can face the entrance to the garden.

„And what bad things do you want to do tonight, Jacquelline?“, Illya prompts, his voice deepening, as he closes in the small distance between their two bodies. He is surreally tall and handsome tonight – Gaby cannot stop looking in a mix of horror and fascination as he slowly, never breaking eye contact with de la Roche, trails kisses up her arm, from her palm, to the inside of her wrist, to the delicate and sensitive skin just in the hollow of her elbow… She still canot avert her gaze as the French woman’s eyelashes flutter and she pulls her arm away, resting it on Illya’s chest instead, hooking her fingers around his silvery shirt buttons, natural and confident as if he is hers already.

„Talk to me in Russian, Alexander“, she says, her voice commanding, and so low Gaby has to strain to hear. There is a pause, and a moment, a split of a second where Illya looks like he is breaking character – Gaby catches it just in his eyes, a momentary look of uncertainty, unwillingness, a stubborness she has come to know by now.

„ _Ah, mon cheri… ma je sais francais est la langue d'amour_ “, he answers eventually, and Gaby doesn’t understand why he is deflecting when he could have just obliged; but it doesn’t matter in any case, because this answer, too, seems to have pleased _mademoissele_ Jacquelline; Illya, sensing his victory, steps even closer, hooking a hand around the woman’s waist; they kiss, lingering, slow, intimate; and in Gaby’s hand, a twig snaps loudly. Her heart stops.

Illya pulls back from the kiss with the speed of a trained spy, and in two steps he is already by Gaby’s hiding place, towering over the bush. His eyes widen, meeting Gaby’s.

„Just the help, sneaking a smoke“, he says, after a moment, his voice controlled, his whole body relaxing and his expression reverting back to indifference, but in his eyes, Gaby can see pure rage. She does not know what he might see in hers.

„Well tell them to get back into the party“, de la Roche says back, the disinterest in her voice clear. „It is what I’m paying them for, after all.“

Gaby emerges from behind the bush and curtsies, making sure to keep her face down.

„Off you go then“, de la Roche says, watching her with an emotionless expression. Gaby turns around and leaves, not daring to meet Illya’s angry eyes again. She feels nauseous for having witnessed that private scene, ashamed for spying on it in the first place; guilty of being caught; and the look he gave her… She has never been the kind of person that cries, but something in the back of her throat feels hot and bitter.

„We need to go, _now_ “, she whispers to Napoleon, half a minute later. „We need to leave.“

For some reason, he actually listens this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> „Ah, mon cheri… ma je sais francais est la langue d'amour“ - "Ah, my darling... but I know french is the language of love."


	4. Chapter 4

When they get to the flat, it even feels more cramped than usual. The red light of the bedroom lamp makes Gaby's fingers twitch, and her breath shaky – the walls feel like they are closing in on her.

***

“I think I might have just blown our cover”, she said to Napoleon on the brisk and forcedly nonchalant walk they took back to their part of town.

“Did Peril see you?”, he asked, keeping his gaze levelled and firmly in front of him.

“Yes.”

She watched as his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched; but Napoleon said nothing. He just nodded. After a moment, he responded, his voice casual as always: “That's something we are going to have to deal with, then.”

***

Now they are in back the flat and Gaby thinks she is hyperventilating. She is not sure. She opens the window, just in case, and sits on her tiny bed, laying her trembling hands in her lap.

“Don't worry yourself too much, Teller”, Napoleon says, unbuttoning his jacket, and laying it neatly on his bed on the other side of the room. “Even if you exposed us – which is still unlikely – I think I have some info that might have been worth it-”

The window pane creaks, almost inaudibly – but loud enough for both Napoleon and Gaby to turn. And now there is an Illya Karyakin standing in their little bedroom, tall, towering, grim. He takes a moment to carefully shut the window behind him.

“What”, he says then, turning back around to face them, “was that.”

His voice is on that edge of tension and explosion, perfectly calm on the surface, but bristling underneath. His Russian accent is deep and prominent now; the words roll heavy off his tongue. He is still in his party suit, but he is not the man from the party anymore – he is all Illya.

“Oh, Kuryakov”, says Napoleon. “I was wondering when you were going to show.”

The phone in the living room rings.

“That would be Waverly. I better go and have my ass handed to me... if you pardon my French”, Solo adds with a cheeky smile, reaching for the door. For once, Gaby is really overwhelmingly happy that Napoleon Solo exists and is there to sweet-talk and charm everyone and anyone and that he is answering that call and that he will make it all better and fix all her mistakes. But then he exists the room – and leaves her with the fuming, overwhelmingly tall Russian whose lips are nothing more than a thin line.

“You did a very stupid thing, Gaby”, he says after a moment.

“Not even a hello?”, she attempts with a jerky smile and watches his jaw as he grits his teeth together.

“No”, he answers. His eyes are not soft – they are angry, questioning.

“Why did you do it?”, he asks.

“Solo made me go to the party-”

“No. Solo is an idiot, that is clear. It is you – I thought you were smarter than that. And why did you follow us in the garden? Do you _understand-_ ” He stops for a second to take a deep breath, looking like he needs to collect himself. “Do you understand how suspicious you looked? Do you understand there were guards posted on both the first and second floor? Do you understand there were two men following you and Solo for about three blocks until I paid some beggar children to distract them?”

“You should not have left the party so soon”, Gaby says before she can stop herself. “Now it's even more suspicious.”

Illya's face hardens even more, his expression becoming almost wooden. It takes him a few moments to respond, and when he does his voice is quiet and strained.

“Do not ask me to protect you, Gaby, and then do _this_. I know I compromised the mission even more now.”

Gaby's mind stops to process this.

“I did not ask-”, she begins to say, loud, furious, because his bad decision will not be blamed on her, not tonight when she has more than enough of her own.

“You do not have to”, he replies simply.

And now, finally, she can see his shoulders fall down, his eyes soften. But he still looks impossibly far away and out of reach – the few steps between them feel like light years.

“I thought you said I can take care of myself”, Gaby mutters.

“I still worry”, he says simply.

She wants to reach out and touch him, hold his hand like the French woman did, but it feels like if she would, she would split at the seems. He takes a step closer, his expression open and vulnerable; everything she needs to know is in his eyes.

“Good news”, Napoleon says suddenly, appearing in the door frame. “We're in the clear.”

Illya stops in place.

“And my orders?”, he asks, locking eyes with Napoleon.

“You, Peril”, he replies, pointing a finger cheerfully, “are going to go to the nearest phone booth, leave a message for mademoiselle de la Roche, apologize _deeply_ and offer to take her out for dinner tomorrow night, just the two of you. That's my advice in any case, Waverly just said to 'fix it'. Good thing for us that de la Roche is not as perceptive as her Italian colleagues. I would suggest you still lay on the charm quite thick tomorrow. I know a really good French place not far from Topkapi...”

Gaby lets Napoleon prattle on; it makes her feels at ease. The electricity in the air dies out a little, but she can still feel her heart thumping loud in her chest, she can still feel the heat in her cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

“It is too suspicious. She is a smart woman, you need to be smart to run an underground bomb factory. She would not _just_ accept an apology like that. She is an heiress, she has multitudes of suitors, she likes to play a little or at the very least pout so she can assert dominance again. She is smart, I saw it. It's not good, Napoleon, it's not good at all. I've been thinking about it all day. I think he is in danger.”

“Admit it, miss Teller”, Napoleon says finally, “you're just jealous.”

There is a long silence from the bathroom, where Gaby is bent over the sink, meticulously scrubbing make-up and dirt off her face from a long day of work.

“That's ridiculous”, she replies eventually. She meets her eyes in the mirror. Lying eyes.

She can practically feel Napoleon's smile from the other room: all-knowing, cheerful, teasing.

“It is”, he says, “and you are.”

Denying it would be childish; but Gaby is too proud to just agree.

She continues taking off her make-up.

“You can't deny that there is something wrong there”, she says after throwing the piece of cotton in the bin.

“I can't”, he replies, “and I won't.”

“You know what, Napoleon?”, she says, struggling to contain her frustration as she appears in the door frame to stare him down. “Sometimes you talk too charming for my taste.”

He glances at her over his newspaper.

“Oh, I forgot. You don't go for charm, do you, Teller? Frigid is more your kind of thing.”

“Don't go circling back to that again”, she says, pointing her toothbrush at him threateningly. “We need to-”

“We don't need to do anything but keep our heads down. Listen, it's admirable that you want to...”, Napoleon waves his hand around vaguely, “help out. But that is not how we do this. And remember, Peril is a grown man and, may I remind you, an actually trained agent. Well trained, though it pains me to admit it. He will take care of himself. Just leave it to the professionals, won't you, darling?”

The door of the bathroom slams loudly in his face.

“Did I say something wrong?”, he calls out after a moment.

***

Illya Kuryakin looks at himself critically in the mirror for the fifteenth time in the last half hour. This night is important. This night is _very_ important. He has styled his hair as Alexander Plotkin would, all smooth and shiny with gel, and is wearing the watch Alexander Plotkin would, heavy with gold and with diamond encrusted handles. All he has to figure out now, is the exact bow-tie Alexander Plotkin would choose, but the selection on his bed is honestly overwhelming: two dozens of them, shipped from the finest gentlemen's shops around Istanbul, from the classic black and blue to shades of grey, white, and deep green. He tries on one with subtle crème stripes; as he struggles with getting it in line, he tries not to think about how, if all goes right tonight, Jacquelline de la Roche will be taking it off him in just a few hours. His fingers twitch with disgust.

He already knows what makes her tick – as young rich heiresses are wont to do, she left not-so-subtle hints at their lunches and afternoon teas. Diamond earrings. Pearl necklaces. A kiss on her earlobe.

No, the tie does not work with his lapels. It must go.

He throws it into the slowly growing reject pile.

There is a creak of the floorboards by the window sill – Illya doesn't even have to turn to know it's her.

“Gaby”, he says, more frustrated than anything else, “ _what_ are you doing here? Does Solo know you are here?"

"I sneaked away through my bathroom window", she replies quietly.

Illya groans.

"You _really_ should not be here.”

“Illya, listen”, she replies urgently, her voice much harsher than usual. “You cannot go tonight. I think it's a trap. Just think about it-”

He sighs.

“I know", he says. "After what happened at the party, there was no way she would not know. Solo called me earlier today to say he picked her up discussing it on one of his bugs. But I need to go.”

Gaby's face freezes. Solo knew.

“Napoleon didn't tell me anything about it.”

Illya's face softens slightly.

“He is just trying to protect you”, he says. “We both are.”

“They will kill you”, she says.

“No, they won't. I can handle it. It's what I need to do to give the men from the defusing squad time to break in and steal the main reactor. Waverly discussed it with me. ”

“They will kill you”, she repeats, eyes ablaze. It's the heat of her words, the heart behind them, that makes him rush forward in a few quick steps until he is close enough to hug her. He struggles between doing it and not doing it, before she makes his decision for him by grabbing his jacket lapels with white hands.

“It will be alright”, he mutters awkwardly. He wonders if patting her hair might be a good idea – his hand hovers for a moment – but he decides against it at the last minute.

“It won't.”

“Stubborn”, he can't help himself but say, burying his smile in her hair.

“Look at me, Gaby”, he murmurs after a second, pulling back and taking her right hand, carefully uncurling the solid gripped fist, and laying it on his chest. “Tall as a mountain. Solid as rock. It will be fine.”

“I still worry”, she says, echoing his words from the night before. Her hand slides down his shirt. He takes it, pulls it against his chest again.

“I like… that you worry”, he replies. Her hand is tiny and elegant, her fingers long, not at all typical for someone who spent most of their life working as a mechanic. It is almost too hot for him to hold. Almost.

“Can I ask you something?”, she says suddenly.

“Yes”, he says. They are but a breath away, but this happened so many times already Illya is already expecting someone to burst through the door.

“When that woman asked you to talk to her in Russian, why did you say French is the language of love instead?”

“ _Gabyushka_ ”, he breathes, “maybe I lied.”

Her mouth parts slightly.

But then the phone rings – of course it rings – and Illya knows he has to answer. He reaches and picks up the speaker without averting his eyes from Gaby, like she is going to disappear at any second.

“Hello?”, he says, making sure his accent is more prominent than normal. “Yes. Yes. I will be right there.” He hangs up.

“The car is here for me. She sent her personal chauffeur.”

Gaby rolls her eyes, and he wants nothing more in the world than to kiss her, the tiny, angry, spiteful little thing.

“Listen, Gaby. You need to go straight home now. Straight to your flat and Napoleon. Do you understand?”

Obviously he knows she hates being ordered to. But she has to listen, just this once.

Her lips purse and chew on unspoken words (Angry words? Sad words? Worried words? Loving words? He does not know), before she bites her lip firmly.

“I understand”, she replies, calmly, evenly.

“Good.”


	6. Chapter 6

The afternoon sun, slowly setting above the Bosphorus, is still annoyingly hot. The back of Gaby's neck is all sweaty, strands of her hair sticking to the skin, and a swarm of flies hovers near her table. An older gentleman swats at them with his newspaper every minute or so, but they do not yield. Napoleon's casual, biting remark flows around Gaby's head: _leave it to the professionals,_ _won't you, darling_ _…_ All the snorts of derival, all the arrogant and condescending words, now rush into her mind. It provides a most unfortunate and distracting noise, with no way of silencing. It is very annoying. As annoying as the flies.

The corner cafe she is sitting in overlooks the entrance of _L_ _a_ _petit_ _e_ _France_ perfectly; Illya has been inside the restaurant with the French woman for the past 39 minutes.

Gaby must admit there is a certain kind of sickness to her at this moment; some of it, probably, is jealousy. But there is no time for reflecting right now. Different scenarios run through her head: poisoning being the most obvious. It would be almost too easy for her to slip a drop or two in his tea. It is a subtle weapon, a woman's weapon. The smartest weapon. But she would not want him dead instantly. She would want to get information. They always do. So just a sleeping pill, or some kind of drug. Still, pretty bad.

When the couple exits the fancy restaurant, it has been exactly one hour and forty-four minutes. Gaby has already drunk two full cups of tea and is just starting on the third; she has no other option but to down it immediately, throw some change on her tiny table, and leave with a subtle nod to the elderly waiter.

Illya looks as sharp as ever – which is good – but Gaby knows it might be just because whatever de la Roche put in his drink hasn't gotten to work yet. She watches from around a corner as Illya raises an arm and hails a cab: impressive feat on the crowded street, even for such an obvious foreigner as himself. De la Roche clings to his other arm, her mouth scrunched up in a smug smile, the rest of her face obscured under a large pair of sunglasses and a wide-brimmed white hat. Gaby really, really hates her.

There are only two options for their next destination – either Illya is bringing the woman back to his hotel room, or she is taking him to her mansion. Obviously the hotel room would not work, Gaby thinks feverishly - they would have records of guests, ergo, evidence for when they find Illya in his room dead. The mansion it is, then.

It doesn't take her too long to get a cab herself; she dictates the address in heavy accented Turkish (memorized from listening in to all the private Napoleon and Waverly phone conversations) and struggles to keep her heart rate low.

****

The rose and magnolia garden of de la Roche's giant walled off residence at the root of one of Istanbul's seven hills proves to be quite good at masking Gaby from the guards, posted at every corner. She crouches behind the large, fragrant bushes, trying to take in all the possible ways to enter the house, and prays to every deity imaginable not to hear a gunshot in the near future. Jumping over the wall proved to be the easiest bit of the breaking in: as she scans the large courtyard separating her and every entrance possible, she realizes this might not as easy as she thought. If she thought at all. Impulse control wasn't her strongest suit, and no good agent would just go off on a whim like this, defying orders like this… Maybe Solo's words were true after all.

There is a soft thump behind her, as another body hits the ground she hit just minutes before.

“Ah, miss Teller”, says Napoleon casually, crawling towards her on all fours. “I was wondering if I was going to find you here.”

She watches him in frozen shock as he nonchalantly dusts off his black suit and pulls out a pair of binoculars from an inner pocket of his jacket.

“Tricky stuff”, he mutters to her after a moment of intent perimeter watching. “Two men on the east wing entrance. Three men on the right. Two men patrolling the yard. Tricky, tricky, tricky. Might make our rescue of Peril just a tiny bit harder. Lucky you picked this blind spot, isn't it? Hardly anyone can hear a couple of bushes rustling. And one of them looks exactly like my fit.”

He flashes Gaby a sparkling smile.

*

“What is it about you”, she grunts out some fifteen minutes later, as they are slowly unbuttoning one of the unconscious guards' shirt, “and stealing clothes off people?”

“I just like costume parties”, Napoleon replies, pulling on the man's dark green pants and strapping the gun to his belt. “Okay, Gaby, just give me five minutes now.”

“Too ambitious.”

“Alright, ten then. I resent your lack of faith”, he says, getting up from behind the bush and walking confidently towards the guards on the east entrance.

It takes him seven and a half minutes to disable the two men in complete and utter silence, hide their bodies in the two large urns very conveniently placed on each side of the door, and steal their weapons. After he is done, he waves cheerfully. Gaby rolls her eyes before getting up and joining him.

“How long was it?”, is the first thing he says to her.

“Eight minutes”, Gaby replies coolly.

“Dirty lie, Teller, and you know it. Come on, then”, he says before turning to the guards at the west door.

She grabs him by the wrist.

“We have no time-”

“Can't take any chances. We need to take out all the guards.”

“He has been in there with her for too long already!”

Napoleon wavers for a moment.

“Alright, listen. Second floor, third window on the left is her bedroom. They are in the parlour right now – she is fixing Peril a drink.”

He cuts off her impeding question ( _how do you know?)_ with a finger pointed to his left ear. A small transmitting device is hooked behind it. “Latest Russian technology. I stole it out of Peril's room in the safe house. The bug is in his shoe. Now go.”

Gaby nods and turns to see which way to climb, but now Napoleon holds on to her arm.

“And, Teller, listen – you need to let Peril do his work and squeeze every last bit of information from her before he passes out from the poison. It's going be hard to watch, but you cannot step in until he, well, _drops dead._ I'll secure the rest of the house and be on the other side of the door if she tries to escape. ”

Gaby nods again, her mouth thinning slightly.

“See you on the other side”, she says, and starts to climb the old white bricked wall.


	7. Chapter 7

The bedroom is enormous and more richly decorated then Gaby's room at the Plaza, which she fondly remembers as the fanciest place she's ever been to. It looks like a grown woman's version of a princess suite – a gold framed mirror extends almost all the way across the wall on Gaby's left, and a bed equally grand stands opposite it, much of it hidden by a rose pink heavy curtain. There is barely any space to hide in, and barely any time to act – in a few quick steps, Gaby jumps through the window and crosses the room to the door on the other side. It leads to the closet, packed ceiling-high with fur coats, evening dresses, feather boas and the like. Gaby gives a pair of expensive looking shoes an honest, hard kick to get rid of her excess nerves, sending them down the length of the room, before sliding against the wall and trying to calm her breathing. There is a quiet, yet distinctly growing louder sound of people walking down the corridor towards the room.

“Ladies first”, Illya rumbles seductively as the sound of the doorknob turning and the door sliding open echoes through the room. “Jacquelline.”

They walk into the room, slow and deliberate, the kind of walk you do when you know what is going to happen next. Illya's shoes make almost no sound on the thick carpet. From her angle, Gaby can see next to nothing: the tiny crack of the open closet door shows a fragment of the big bed and nothing else.

“ _Sil te plait, cheri…_ sit”, de la Roche says in an already familiar sultry tone, and now Gaby can glimpse the line of Illya's back, as he sits rigidly on the edge of the bed. There is a jangle of jewellery as the French woman rests her left arm on his shoulder languidly. An obnoxiously loud kiss follows it, but Gaby keeps watching as Illya reaches around the woman's waist slowly. But then, Jacquelline de la Roche slips out of his grip.

“Now, now”, she says, once again out of Gaby's sight, “let's not rush things, shall we, dear?”

Gaby grimaces, because this is the bit they have all been waiting for… and dreading it.

“Truly sorry to say this, monsieur Kuryakov”, de la Roche says with a drawl, “but our fun has come to an end. Such shame, too. You were not half a bad kisser.”

Illya's back straightens; he has also been waiting for this.

“So what now?”, he says, in his normal tone of voice, so much different than the one before.

“Nothing special”, de la Roche answers plainly. “You die.”

Illya inspects his hands closely.

“Poison, wasn't it?”, he asks. “It's taking effect already. Well.”

“Who sent you?”

“How about this: you ask a question, I ask a question.”

“Funny how you think you can make demands.”

“Humour a dying man, _mademouiselle_.”

“Alright then. Again: who sent you?”

There is a heavy sound of coughing as Illya's doubles over; the small of his back is shivering and his shirt clings to his body as it suddenly breaks out in a sweat. After a moment, he sits up again, but his shoulders remain hunched. His voice weak and cracking, he answers:

“Both the CIA and the KGB. My question: who do you work for?”

“I'm not buying it – you're obviously wired.”

“You promised.”

“Did no such thing. Thank you for this enlightening conversation, but now it's time to say goodbye. A big man like yourself, mister Kuryakin, I had no idea how much poison to put in your drink. And you know… I really don't like taking chances.”

There is a sharp intake of breath, and then the unmistakeable sound of a gun being loaded.

And before Gaby has time to think, something purely instinctual takes over – she slams into de la Roche, knocking them both on the floor. The French woman takes no time to be surprised, and punches her in the face with her left hand. It stings like hell but Gaby hardly cares as she returns the blow. De la Roche moves as a natural fighter, her tight dress barely constricting her – she is stronger, bigger. All this Gaby realizes in the few seconds of wrestling on the floor; de la Roche's grip on her gun is tight and impossible to release, and her left hand is surprisingly strong and precise. It is all too clear that she is about to lose this fight, and as de la Roche still aims for Illya, face pale and shaking visibly on the bed behind them, Gaby does the only thing she can – she reaches for the gun.

There is a bang, and the world fades to black.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Gaby is released from the hospital, two weeks later, the bullet wound two inches above her bellybutton almost completely healed, Istanbul spring is almost certainly summer; she lets the warm sun coming through her hospital room curtains warm her cheek, as Napoleon packs up her suitcase.

****

When she woke up in that hospital bed for the first time, to the beeping of her heart monitor and the buzz of sounds on the other side of the door, Napoleon was there with her, body languidly stretched over three chairs. He had watched as she came to, blinking in confusion, then leaned forward and reached for her hand and said: „Teller. Don't ever let me call you anything less than an excellent agent.“

He filled her in on the aftermath: him rushing to the door as soon as he heard two bodies hit the floor, and reaching just in time to kick the gun out of de la Roche's hands after the first shot; the scene of her bloody body lying on the floor, staining the carpet crimson as Illya laid in the bed, paler than a ghost.

In the days that followed, Waverly waded in and out of her room, sometimes wringing his hands, sometimes smoking. They explained to her everything else, too: de la Roche was being shipped off to London with a heavy interrogation waiting; the factory was being disbanded and all its products destroyed (not likely, but still the official statement from both the CIA and the KGB – still, Napoleon had the decency to blush); no answers had been given to the pressing question of who was de la Roche's buyer; the case was still open, but passed to other hands while they recover. And Illya was in a separate hospital wing, recovering from the poison.

„Truly nasty stuff“, Waverly said, after one long drag of his cigarette. Gaby thought about showing him the sign above the door that said SMOKING PROHIBITED, but decided not to.

„His liver almost collapsed. One kidney is a damn near complete ruin. Still, a giant like that – he will pull through. And don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Teller.“

And she gritted her teeth and let it go.

***

And now it is two weeks later.

She closes her eyes, leaning into the light and warmth pouring from the window – her feet still a little unsteady from all the time she spent lying in bed – and when she opens them, Illya Kuryakov is standing at the treshold of her room. It is always about doorways and tresholds with the two of them – never quite there, but still close enough. He looks pale and thinner than before, but, alive. It is all that matters in the end.

They lock eyes, and Napoleon excuses himself with a burst of blabbering words Gaby can't bother to actually listen to.

When they are left alone in the sterile, humid, mint green room, only then Illya actually walks in.

„Gaby“, he says, voice grave. „I cannot – I am – forever grateful. You know that.“

„I do“, she says. „Besides, it was only one bullet. Tiny hole. Nothing to fret about.“

He kneels down, quite suddenly, in front of her.

„May I see it?“, he asks, looking up, his expression timid. Gaby huffs a surprised breath, and glances around as if someone will pop from under her bed. As she lifts up her blouse slowly, she watches his eyes.

Illya hesitates a moment, looking at the smooth tanned skin of her stomach, and the white, broken lines of the scar; and then leans in and kisses it, so tenderly that Gaby's breath hitches. He lays his forehead on her belly, then, and sighs.

„You should not have done it – you spilled blood for me.“

Her lips twitch in a small smile, and she runs her hand through his soft, blond hair.

„Blood and bones, Illya, is the business we have entered a long time ago. Get up from there.“

He gets up shakily, but reminds close enough for her to feel his presence – his warm, protecting, worrying presence. Gaby lifts up on her toes, ignoring the dull pain as her whole body stretches towards him.

„I would do it all over again“, she whispers confidentially, and before Illya can reply, she kisses him with a ferociousness she didn't think she was capable of. Caught off guard, he stumbles, only a little, before steadying her with a warm hand sliding around her waist. When she moves away, a few moments later, his lips follow hers as if by instict, and he kisses her chin instead:

„ _Gabyshka_.“

Her neck:

„ _Prekrasnya._ “

Her shoulder:

„ _Moya malenkaya_.“

He kisses each and every one of her fingers:

„ _Moya hrabrya._ “

If Gaby could choose any moment to live forever in, it would be this one: the unexpected gentleness of it makes her head spin. She wants to take it all in: his pale Byzantine eyes and each and every one of his eyelashes; the fading freckles on the bridge of his nose, caused by the southern sun; the delicate way he is holding her hands in his.

„You guys done? Uhhh, Waverly is going to be here in the next five minutes to prep us for the next mission and the suitcase is not gonna pack it self, so...“

They both turn to see Napoleon's face peering around the door.

„I am _terribly_ sorry for interrupting though. Peril, good to see you've got some colour back in your cheeks, you'll be back to your old self in no time.“

Gaby glances at Illya, only to see him blushing even more furiously, and she can't help but smile.

As they exit the hospital, some thirty minutes later, and wait in the sweltering heat for their car to pull up (taking them to Rio de Janeiro, where there is a Chinese drug smugglers chain that needs to be broken down), he reaches out and grazes the back of her hand with his knuckles.

She watches him smile almost imperceptibly; and she knows they will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> It is done, and thank you all so much for reading! Every comment will be much appreciated by this fic writer who hasn't done it in a really long time xx


End file.
